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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24852031">Spring Cleaning</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/janemee/pseuds/janemee'>janemee</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Adventure Zone (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Character Study, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:15:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,064</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24852031</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/janemee/pseuds/janemee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Argo Keene/Sir Fitzroy Maplecourt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Spring Cleaning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>An outside observer might be inclined to disagree, but Argo was the rational one of the Thunderman group.</p><p> </p><p>Fitzroy was, for lack of a better word, a loose canon. His hot shot magic combined with his tendency to be offended meant that on a bad day there could be up to five incidents before breakfast. Argo has learned to hide his favorite possessions, as nothing is safe from rage incineration. He’s also received a few impromptu mustache trimmings.</p><p> </p><p>Chaos hasn’t helped the matter, giving the would-be-knight an undue source of pride, telling him he’s special, worthy, perfect. As much as his fits have the ability to hurt, they are weatherable, and sometimes endearing. Argo sees through the stormy mind and jittery attitude to the passionate boy underneath, and he loves the soft soul inside, so he nurtures it.</p><p> </p><p>The Firbolg, though stoic and calm at first glance, has an icy rage that sunk in his stomach long ago, and when it comes out, it takes others down hard. He is often unkind, not just because of ignorance or bluntness; when he wants to be, he is mean on purpose. The first time Fitzroy saw Rainier cry, it was because of something the Firbolg had said. He is fully aware of his height, the intimidation factor he holds from being the strong, silent type, and he uses that to his advantage.</p><p> </p><p>His title of ‘CFO’ and ‘higglemas’ pet’ actively make things worse, giving him an undue sense of authority, power he’s never been exposed to before. He loves it, relishing the fear in other student’s eyes. This world respects hierarchy, and he’s going to stake a claim for himself at the top. Argo is the one to talk him down, steering him away from the dangerous tendencies, grounding him with soft smells, earthy presents, and meditation near running water. He tries to melt the hardened heart, by pouring reassurance on the Firbolg again and again.</p><p> </p><p>So yeah, Argo is the calm one, hardened by years of swelling seas. Sure, he has his knives, using dagger tricks to threaten anyone that would mess with him, but that’s habit more than anything. He’s had to quell himself for years, choking down his emotions in order to be a better first mate, a better son. God, when was the last time he cried? Felt anything? Allowed himself to sink deep into his thoughts without floating over the surface? It has to be years, at least. Everything he does now is just skipping, hopping from place to place, thought to thought, with no real need for introspection.</p><p> </p><p><em> All a sailor needs time for is his chores, </em> His mother would say, <em> Too much of a mind will make your arms weak and your heart sick. </em></p><p> </p><p>He believed it, too, and as long as he had been at Wiggenpoof’s, he had taken what he thought of as ‘chores’ very seriously. He kept the dorm room spotless, picking up after the interdimensional cat, cleaning and dusting Gary, and tucking away the various shoes and rocks that littered the floor every night before they retired.</p><p> </p><p>But today, something bubbled out of him. Maybe it was sadness, maybe fear or regret. He woke up with the feeling, his heart was uneasy, tired, and sinking beneath the weight in his chest.</p><p>Fitzroy and Firby were gone when he finally got up. It was the weekend, so he didn’t feel too guilty. Sundays were always restful, even at sea, and his mother would read to him from her large leather book of pirate adventures. Today is Sunday, so he can go slow.</p><p> </p><p>He bathes, taking his time to consult with his body. His muscles ache deeply from hours of strength training and being in confined spaces with Jackle. His hair is unhappy, falling oddly over his shoulders, refusing to shine or flow naturally.</p><p> </p><p><em> Stop reading too much into every little thing. Clouds tell the future, not your damn hair. </em>Shebrie’s voice rings in his ears. It’s healthy, loud, throaty, strong, welcome.</p><p> </p><p>He dresses in silence, making sure each crease and cuff is inspection ready. He laces his boots with great care, shining them until the black leather reflects his watery face. He pauses for a moment as he does his hair in the mirror, almost wondering who he thinks he’s going to present for. Today is Sunday, he can rest.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t want to rest, he wants something he can’t describe. He wants Something still isn’t right, as he circles the room for the third time, wet rag in hand. Gary comes alive from his place on the sconce.</p><p> </p><p>“Hey Argo, The room’s looking pretty clean, bud. Why don’t you go outside? Get some fresh air?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, Gary! Maybe that’s what it is! Have I dusted under your hat this week?”</p><p> </p><p>The gargoyle removes his hat, fluffing the stone that’s hidden under it as one would lather shampoo. </p><p> </p><p>“It's fine, look, white glove test!” He holds up a joking finger.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, If you’re sure. What’s outside?”</p><p> </p><p>“You mean like.. Sun? Trees?”</p><p> </p><p>“I mean why would I get fresh air, is something happening today?”<br/><br/></p><p>“No, It’s pretty dead out there, just thought you looked a little stir-crazy.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, okay, well thank you, I’m good though.”</p><p> </p><p>“Sure, bud. Anytime.”</p><p> </p><p>As Gary settles back into stone, Argo feels something bubble to the forefront of his mind.</p><p> </p><p>He misses his crew.</p><p> </p><p>He hasn’t thought about it in those words before, as he always considered the thundermen his new crew, but there’s something about working alone that makes his sailor heart hurt.</p><p> </p><p>He misses his crew.</p><p> </p><p>As he looks out the window again, the sight seems so familiar. Of course. It’s early spring, they would have just been setting off now, sails high and many many men whistling their own tunes to disappear on the breeze.</p><p> </p><p>This was always the best season, and the work was so easy, it was in service of their captain, of Shebrie, of his mother. The whole ship worked to make her proud. He was one puffed chest in a deck of many, vying for her attention, her favor.</p><p> </p><p>He can remember the songs so well, their many stories and hymns that carried his dreams so many warm nights. Adventuring was his greatest goal, he would be here forever.</p><p> </p><p>Of course, that was before. That last year, He and his mother had been alone on the ship.</p><p> </p><p>He remembers that last horrible night. The crew shuffled off of the ship, hats held in their worrying hands, shaking hands with the captain one last time. They were all too quiet, not looking at Argo when he screamed and sobbed, demanding they come back, or at least take him with them. Where are they going? Why are they going? Why wasn’t he enough? When the first mate gave the young boy his hat, it swallowed his head, and he could barely understand the gruff words as the taller man knelt down next to him.</p><p> </p><p>“These are things a crew knows, It’s time for us to find a new captain.”</p><p> </p><p>Later, Argo learned that Shebrie had made them leave. She was already sick, already partly gone. Good at hiding her bloody handkerchief from her son.</p><p> </p><p>The last year was lonely. The deck was silent, and the nights were cold. He took on every chore he could, but still the captain barely looked his way. He worked so hard, and she promised that next summer would bring a new adventure, a new crew. </p><p> </p><p>He kept the ship spotless, trying to impress ghosts of what could be. He cooked for himself and the captain night after night, but she took her meals in her room. He learned every map they had on board, so he could answer any questions she had about navigation or their course. He worked, and worked, and worked, numbing his sore hands and feet, ignoring them for the good of the captain, for the hope of next summer.</p><p> </p><p>She died in October. That damn handkerchief was still clutched in a fist when he found her, fallen over her big notebook, documenting her coordinates, spinning one last beautiful tale.</p><p> </p><p>God, he misses his crew. It’s so clear now, the days he’s spent working alone finally catch up to him. He misses the sense of togetherness, one without hierarchy. He and the kitchen boys had grown up together, eating too many rations, drawing silly pictures in the grease from pots they were cleaning. He misses working for a purpose, towards something. Today is Sunday, the day they usually would have spent together.</p><p> </p><p>He misses his mother sometimes, but not with the same ache he feels now. The crew was his reason, his will, the wind under his sails. He misses her as one misses an anchor when they’ve pulled into dock. She was his surest bet, his favorite weapon, his captain. Today, he misses the crew, misses Sundays, misses home.</p><p> </p><p>When Fitzroy and the Firbolg return, squabbling over types of berries, they find Argo in a familiar state: Cleaning Frenzy. He obsessively runs his cloth over the same surface, counting the strokes, tapping his feet to the invisible drums.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Onetwothree, onetwothree, onetwo… </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Woah hey, Argo! What did you do today?” Fitzroy is first to try to break his trance, waving his arm in front of the rogue’s face. It hadn’t been a bad week, he would have noticed if he was anxious before this, right? This had to be new, he had to have worked himself into this, he had to be brewing a storm in his mind. He would have seen this coming, right?</p><p> </p><p>No answer from Argo. </p><p> </p><p>“Friend Argo. are you okay?” </p><p> </p><p>No answer again.</p><p> </p><p>Fitzroy spends a couple minutes trying to connect with his love, slowly petting his hair, whispering encouragement, trying to get him to say what is wrong. After he is slowly able to pull the rag from his rough hands, he nods at the Firbolg, who picks Argo up, setting him on the top bunk. Firby wraps a hand around his shoulders, and Fitzroy continues to pet his hair, holding it up from his neck, tender little fingers massaging his shirt collar, telling him all is well.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>When Argo speaks, it's tiny whispered phrases, they bubble out like water from a stream, slowly, then all at once.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’d be all right if the wind was in our sails </em>
</p><p>
  <em> All right if the wind was in our sails </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It’d be all right if the wind was in our sails </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And we’d all hang on behind. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“What? Honey I don’t understand. What are you saying-”</p><p> </p><p>“Fitzroy,” The Firbolg interrupts, more hurriedly than he’s spoken in a while. “Fitzroy, I know this one! It is, an old song, from the clan, we would, sing and respond.”</p><p> </p><p>And slowly, the deep voice joins Argo’s soft mewling.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And we’d roll the old chariot along </em>
</p><p>
  <em> We’d roll the old chariot along </em>
</p><p>
  <em> We’d roll the old chariot along </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And we’d all hang on behind. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It takes a few verses, Argo goes from quiet, to shy, to surprised, but soon even fitzroy picks up on the tune, and the song rings through their room loudly.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And we’d roll the old chariot along </em>
</p><p>
  <em> We’d roll the old chariot along </em>
</p><p>
  <em> We’d roll the old chariot along </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And we’d all hang on behind! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Raucous laughter comes from deep within Argo’s chest. Fitzroy recognizes it as a captain’s laugh. Full, loud, healthy and throaty. It’s a welcome sound opposed to the whimpers he heard earlier.</p><p> </p><p>“There you are, sailor. What happened, love?”<br/><br/></p><p>“It got to me, ya know? I miss having a crew.”</p><p> </p><p>The firbolg frowns, fondling the lightning bolt he wears around his neck.</p><p> </p><p>“Is this… Thunderman LLC, Not a crew?”<br/><br/></p><p>“No, No! You guys very much are my crew, but I miss adventuring, I miss having someone to work with.”</p><p> </p><p>“This is understandable. I tink… we all miss…. Something.”</p><p> </p><p>“But we are here for a reason, right?” The half-elf chimes in, “We all lost a little, to gain each other.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, I guess so.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, this is very wise.”</p><p> </p><p>So they sit, folded in each others’ arms, and occasionally a verse or two echoes from their walls. They’ll draw up a new roommate contract in the morning, each convinced they’re doing more work than the other two, but it’ll be fine. They’ll settle back into their roles again, and all will be well.</p>
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